The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

Again that mellifluous dissyllable, in a voice that you could have carved up with a wafer of butter.

'Well, sir, what I mean is, if you were the Saint, sir, and if you hadn't forgotten that you might ever have been him, you might——'

'Be hunting scorpions?'

'That's the way I thought it out, sir.'

'And?'

'I was hanging around last night, Mr. Templar, trying to make up my mind to come and see you, and I saw the shoot­ing.'

'And?'

'That car—it was just like the car that met me out beyond Hatfield, sir.'

'And?'

'I thought p'raps it was the same car.'

'And?'

Simon prompted him for the fourth time from the corner table where he was replenishing Long Harry's glass. His back was turned, but there was an inconspicuous little mirror just above the level of the eyes—the room was covered from every angle by those inconspicuous little mirrors. And he saw the twitching of Long Harry's mouth.

'I came because I thought you might be able to stop the Scorpion getting me, Mr. Templar,' said Long Harry, in one jerk.

'Ah!' The Saint swung round. 'That's more like it! So you're on the list, are you?'

'I think so.' Long Harry nodded. 'There was a shot aimed at me last night, too, but I suppose you wouldn't 've noticed it.'

Simon Templar lighted another cigarette.

'I see. The Scorpion spotted you hanging around here, and tried to bump you off. That's natural. But, Harry, you never even started hanging around here until you got the idea you might like to tell me the story of your life—and still you haven't told me where that idea came from. Sing on, Harry— I'm listening, and I'm certainly patient.'

Long Harry absorbed a gill of Maison Dewar in comparative silence, and wiped his lips on the back of his hand.

'I had another letter on Monday morning, telling me to be at the same place at midnight tomorrow.'

'And?'

'Monday afternoon I was talking to some friends. I didn't tell 'em anything, but I sort of steered the conversation around, not bringing myself in personal. You remember Wil­bey?'

'Found full of bullets on the Portsmouth Road three months ago? Yes—I remember.'

'I heard—it's just a story, but I heard the last job he did was for the Scorpion. He talked about it. The bloke shot himself that time, too. An' I began thinking. It may surprise you, Mr. Templar, but sometimes I'm very si-chick.'

'You worked it out that as long as the victims paid up, everything was all right. But if they did anything desperate, there was always a chance of trouble; and the Scorpion wouldn't want anyone who could talk running about without a muzzle. That right?'

Long Harry nodded, and his prominent Adam's apple flick­ered once up and down.

'Yes, I think if I keep that appointment tomorrow I'll be— what's that American word?—on the spot. Even if I don't go——' The man broke off with a shrug that made a feeble attempt at bravado. 'I couldn't take that story of mine to the police, Mr. Templar, as you'll understand, and I wondered——'

Simon Templar settled a little deeper into his chair and sent a couple of perfect smoke-rings chasing each other up towards the ceiling.

He understood Long Harry's thought processes quite clearly. Long Harry was a commonplace and more or less peaceful yegg, and violence was not among the most prominent inter­ests of his life. Long Harry, as the Saint knew, had never even carried so much as a life-preserver. . . . The situation was obvious.

But how the situation was to be turned to account—that required a second or two's meditation. Perhaps two seconds. And then the little matter of spoon-feeding that squirming young pup of a plan up to a full-sized man-eating carnivore hopping around on its own pads .... maybe five seconds

more. And then ——